Caryl Phillips - A Distant Shore

“I see.” He waits a beat. Then he once again lowers his eyes to meet her own. “It’s never easy for a patient to come to terms with this situation, but your sister possesses a tranquillity which is in many ways quite remarkable.” The doctor seems worried now, as though wondering if he ought to explain exactly what he means. But she does not require any explication from this doctor. She has seen it for herself. The only thing that puzzles her is whether this tranquillity was there before the illness, or if the illness has brought this on. “Is there anything that you need to ask me?” The word “need” seems a little strange to her, but she simply shakes her head. “There are,” he says “various agencies who specialise in counselling of one sort or another. The nurse can give you their numbers if you’re interested.” She is momentarily puzzled and wonders if he means counselling for her or for Sheila, but she decides not to trouble this man any further.

“Thank you,” she says. He gets to his feet.

“Your sister shouldn’t be too long now.” He hands her a card that he takes from a tray on his desk. “Please call me if there’s anything at all that’s worrying you. This will not be an easy time for her, and I can see how much of a shock this has been for you.”

In the evening she sits at the back of the hall at the local Labour Party meeting. Resting on the chair next to her is a plastic shopping bag full of files and papers that Sheila has asked her to return to her employers, along with a letter of resignation. After this morning’s tests they walked around her sister’s garden, and Sheila pointed out all the plants that she and Maria had planted, and she occasionally stopped to pluck off a brown leaf, or break back a weed or a stray branch. Then they sat at the small wooden picnic table, with its two neatly arranged benches, and Sheila confessed to her sister that she was extremely tired. She admitted that her job as the secretary of the local Labour Party was simply too much, and then she rolled her eyes and declared that Tony Blair’s revolution would just have to do without her. At least for now. She laughed at Sheila’s comment and agreed to take back the necessary files that evening.

Derek is just as Sheila has described him. A tall man who carries himself awkwardly, and who possesses a face that positively oozes nervous concern. He winds up the meeting, fields some gently pitched enquiries, and then strolls towards her at the back of the hall. She stands up to greet him, and he extends his hand.

“I’m happy to meet you,” he says, welcoming her with a smile that she imagines he bought somewhere. “But I’m sorry to hear about Sheila’s resignation. She’ll be sorely missed.” She picks up the shopping bag.

“Sheila asked me to bring these for you. She wanted you to have them straight away.”

“Well, it’s typical of her to be so thoughtful.” She stares at this man, who seems somewhat unnerved by this encounter.

“Do you have somebody lined up to take her job?”

He laughs nervously. “Well, I’m only the local chair. And mine’s a voluntary position. Sheila’s job will have to be decided on by the whole committee, including our MP, but as it’s the only full-time job we have there’s bound to be plenty of competition.” Then he stops, as though suddenly aware of what he has just said. “Would you be interested in the job?” He is clearly embarrassed that this has not already occurred to him. She smiles.

“Thank you, but I already have a job.” This poor nervous man.

“Of course.” He laughs skittishly. “Well,” he says, “we usually go to the pub for a tipple and to thrash things around somewhat. You know, set the world to rights.” He glances towards a small knot of people who are waiting for him by the door. “Would you like to join us?”

“No, but thanks very much. I’ve got to get back.”

“Of course,” he says, “I understand.” They stare at each other and then he once again holds out his hand, which she shakes. “Please convey our warmest wishes to Sheila for a speedy recovery.”

“I will,” she says, and she watches as he turns to leave. “Don’t forget the papers.” He stops and laughs. She hands him the shopping bag, which he cradles in his arms like a child.

“How stupid of me.”

The following evening the sisters go to the local cinema to see a film by a friend of Roger’s. Sheila is adamant that she and Brian met the director one night at dinner. Sheila is also convinced that Roger has always been jealous of his friend’s successful move into features, while Roger has been stuck, albeit at the high end, in television documentary. But she does not remember this man, nor does she remember Roger’s jealousy. As she watches the film, her mind wanders. It must be nearly forty years since she last sat with her sister in the dark. No doubt her parents had bullied her into taking Sheila to some cartoon or other, but the rediscovery of something as simple as a trip to the cinema with Sheila fills her with a cautious joy. After all, so much between them continues to remain unspoken. Sheila, for all her new-found serenity, still appears to be unreceptive to intimacy, and the hours between meals are stitched together in silence. There has been no sharing of photographs, or affable tumbling down the paths of old memories. Her sister appears to be grateful for her presence, but she remains hermetically sealed.

She looks across at Sheila. She wants to tell her about how, after she left to go off with Maria, Roger had called her and suggested that the next time she came to London they should meet for a drink. And how she manufactured an excuse to Brian about a concert at Wig-more Hall, and met Roger in a club in Soho that lay behind a single unmarked door. Once she was buzzed inside, and had climbed the seemingly endless steps, she entered a smoky room that appeared to be full of over-confident men. Roger waved to her from the bar and immediately pressed a drink upon her and told her that he was heart-broken to be “dumped” by Sheila, but as the evening progressed it was unclear what purpose she served, other than to provide him with an audience for his self-pity. Corrosion was the order of the evening: Roger soon began to refer to Maria as “the lesbian bitch”; the Labour Party became “the fucking reds”; and Sheila was castigated as “self-righteous and jealous of my success.” She listened until it was time to take the last train back. Sadly, she would have to mark school papers on the train, and she was already worried that she might have drunk too much wine. As she stood to leave, Roger offered to walk her back downstairs to the door. He had spotted some friends from the world of commercial film standing at the other end of the bar, and so he was staying. She thanked him, but told him that she would let herself out, which she did, and on the train back to Birmingham she didn’t know whether to feel pity for Roger or for herself. And now, sitting here in the dark, watching Roger’s friend’s dreadful film, all she wants to do is reach over and take her sister’s hand and tell her about that evening, to share with her how she feels about this betrayal, but Sheila appears to be moored in a peaceful place. She sits with her sister, tears beginning to form in her eyes, and waits. And then eventually the credits begin to roll, and she quickly wipes her eyes, and as the house lights come up, her sister gives her that lopsided grin of hers.

The telephone rings twice and then she picks it up. The man’s voice is pleasant, but he speaks with a strangely detached authority. She confirms her name, but as she does so she wonders how this man knows who she is. She has not given anybody Sheila’s telephone number.

“I’m calling you from St. Thomas’s Hospital.” Immediately she knows that something is wrong, for this is not Sheila’s hospital. “I’m a police officer. Your sister has been the victim of a mugging attack, but she’s fine. We’re bringing her home by car and we just want to make sure that you’ll be there to receive her.”